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By Root 2915 0

Louis Comfort Tiffany—then it’s no wonder, I suppose, that you’d have a stroke when your own kid refused to do what you told him. Hanging from the high ceiling was a gigantic, bulbous Tiffany lamp, with smaller lamps, also of Tiffany glass, suspended in a circle from the top of this central fixture. Below that conglomeration, set in front of a marble Moorish fireplace and on top of several enormous, thick Persian carpets, were some straight-backed velvet chairs. In two of these sat the Doctor and Mr. Moore, seeming very small in that room; and opposite them—covered, in spite of the July heat, by a rich fur blanket—was Mr. Vanderbilt, looking like what he was: a man on a slow but steady course to death. His long face and glaring eyes, which once could intimidate most men even from a good distance, were now full of a beaten sadness, and his voice was rough.

“And what reason can you possibly have to come to me for such information?” he was asking.

I ducked back down to hide and listen as Mr. Moore responded, “The woman was a servant of yours, Mr. Vanderbilt, for a time—at least, she listed you as her employer on some hospital forms we’ve seen.”

“What of it?” Mr. Vanderbilt answered, in a tone what you might politely call condescending. “Yes, she was employed here. But as to her private dealings—they were precisely that, and respected as such. Elspeth Hatch was a trusted servant. She had been since her arrival in the city.”

“And that was—” the Doctor asked.

I heard a hoarse sigh of exasperation come out of their host, causing Mr. Moore to add, “If the matter weren’t so urgent, Mr. Vanderbilt—”

“Urgent?” old man Vanderbilt cut in. “Urgent, yet you will not tell me what it is?”

“The confidentiality of patient and physician,” the Doctor replied. “I’m sure you understand.”

“And we really wouldn’t impose on you,” Mr. Moore said, “if we had any choice.”

“Well,” Mr. Vanderbilt grunted. “At the very least you recognize that it is an imposition. Had I any less regard for your family, Mr. Moore—”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Moore answered. “Quite.”

Another irritated sigh got out of Mr. Vanderbilt. “We engaged Elspeth Hatch in—I should say it was in the summer of 1894. Very soon after the tragedy. We had heard of her misfortune from friends upstate, and my wife thought that offering her a position—we needed a maid in any case—would offer her a chance to leave her home and put the past behind her. Mrs. Vanderbilt is a woman of uncommon compassion.” He grunted again. “And breeding …”

There followed a few more silent moments, during which I figured that the Doctor and Mr. Moore were glancing at each other, trying to come up with a way to find out what the “tragedy” Mr. Vanderbilt had mentioned was. Given his attitude, it didn’t seem likely he’d share any information about his former servant’s personal misfortune if he thought his visitors weren’t already aware of it.

“That was indeed uncommonly compassionate of your wife, sir,” the Doctor finally said. “And no doubt it helped Mrs. Hatch recover. A change of locale is often the only effective antidote to such an unfortunate experience.”

“‘Unfortunate experience’?” Mr. Vanderbilt rumbled back. “Seeing your own children shot down before you by a madman? Are you a disciple of understatement, Doctor, or have you simply become inured to tragedy through your work?”

That statement caused my eyes to pop a bit; and I could only think of how hard the Doctor and Mr. Moore must’ve been working to hide a like reaction.

“I—certainly didn’t mean to sound callous, sir,” the Doctor finally said. “Perhaps my work sometimes does prevent me from treating—murder”— he said the word carefully, as if he half expected a contradiction; but none came—“with the proper consideration,” he finished.

Mr. Vanderbilt huffed, rather than grunted, this time. “I suppose that’s to be expected. At any rate, she arrived here just two or three months later. And she worked with uncommon diligence, considering that the fate of her eldest daughter remained so uncertain.”

“Ah. Yes, of course,” Mr. Moore said. “And she left your